


More Than True

by mammothluv



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Incest, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 13:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mammothluv/pseuds/mammothluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>So when they’re lying together in bed and Emma puts a hand on Mary Margaret’s side in a gesture of comfort and Mary Margaret’s skin is warm underneath Emma’s touch -- warm she knows because the fabric of her shirt has ridden up just a little bit so Emma’s hand rests against Mary Margaret’s bare skin -- things just unfold. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than True

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beerbad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beerbad/gifts).



> Written for the ever so amazing [](http://beerbad.livejournal.com/profile)[**beerbad**](http://beerbad.livejournal.com/) for [](http://fandomaid.livejournal.com/profile)[**fandomaid**](http://fandomaid.livejournal.com/). Thank you for bidding on me! Thank you also to [](http://lone-lilly.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://lone-lilly.dreamwidth.org/)**lone_lilly** for betaing, pestering me about finishing this, and some stellar title suggestions.
> 
> Once Upon a Time belongs to ABC and the show’s creators. Chapter titles are lyrics from Lisa Mitchell’s “Alice.” The title is inspired by a quote from Neil Gaiman’s Coraline. I'm not making any profit and no copyright infringement is intended.

**i. feels like i have just woke up**  
Emma doesn’t mean for it to happen. Still, it’s not the regrettable kind of unintentional she’s used to. There’s something about Mary Margaret that’s always pulled Emma forward. So when they’re lying together in bed and Emma puts a hand on Mary Margaret’s side in a gesture of comfort and Mary Margaret’s skin is warm underneath Emma’s touch -- warm she knows because the fabric of her shirt has ridden up just a little bit so Emma’s hand rests against Mary Margaret’s bare skin -- things just unfold.

Mary Margaret feels like discovery. Or maybe not discovery, rather something known and lost but found again. Emma doesn't know how that could be but she does know in this moment she feels like she can breathe in a way she hasn’t been able to since she first came to Storybrooke, maybe ever. That has to mean something.

In this moment Emma hates David, hates him for being the reason Mary Margaret is lying curled up in her bed in need of comfort. Maybe Emma hates herself a little bit too for taking advantage, though it doesn’t feel like that’s exactly what she’s doing. Still her hand on Mary Margaret’s side trails upward, pushing Mary Margaret’s shirt with it, and Emma’s brain says stop.

She doesn’t.

Mary Margaret breathes in and Emma can feel Mary Margaret’s stomach expand and contract under Emma’s splayed fingers. Mary Margaret turns over so she's facing Emma and there’s something in her eyes Emma could almost read as love.

But Emma doesn’t want to believe that, doesn’t trust the slow, light hope that’s rising now in her chest. She closes the distance between them, in hopes of silencing it, her lips are on Mary Margaret’s before she can think _‘this is the wrong way to do it.’_

Mary Margaret pauses, pulls away. There's an apology on Emma's lips but it dies when seconds later it's Mary Margaret who closes the distance between them. And then it's just a building fire that burns every reason why they shouldn’t be doing this from Emma’s brain and her fingers are digging into Mary Margaret’s back, pulling her closer with a desperation that threatens to overwhelm her.

Despite a mind racing with reservations, Emma's fingers are sure. They tug at fabric and buttons and zippers just as easily as they travel over sensitive spots on Mary Margaret's skin. They rest at the juncture of Mary Margaret’s neck and shoulder as Emma's tongue traces the inside of Mary Margaret's lip. They follow the line of Mary Margaret’s spine as Emma pulls Mary Margaret close and lets her tongue explore the swell of Mary Margaret’s now bare breasts, circle lightly around her nipple, before grazing her teeth over it, eliciting a gasp from Mary Margaret whose hands on Emma’s shoulders reflexively pull her closer, keep the attention where she wants it.

In contrast to Emma, Mary Margaret is careful, almost hesitant. She looks at Emma like she’s in awe of her. Emma has to break eye contact, finds the reverence in Mary Margaret’s gaze too much to contemplate. She plants a trail of kisses down the gentle curve of Mary Margaret’s stomach instead.

Mary Margaret’s skin is soft and pale. It makes sense Henry has imagined Mary Margaret as Snow White in his fairytale fantasy; she is perfectly cast as the storybook princess.

When Emma’s trail leads her to Mary Margaret’s thighs, dark hair a stark contrast against pale skin there too, Emma reaches a hand up and urges them apart. Mary Margaret acquiesces readily and Emma follows with a quick kiss and then a dart of her tongue along the inside of Mary Margaret’s thigh. Mary Margaret’s hips rise toward Emma in response.

Emma’s been with plenty of men and women but she’s never wanted someone with this intensity. She’s not a selfish lover by any means but usually, by now, she’d be guiding someone’s hands between her legs, making her own need known. And she wants that. She wants Mary Margaret to touch her, to know the feel of Mary Margaret’s fingers curling inside her. But more than anything she needs to know she can make Mary Margaret come, wants to watch her come apart and back together again.

Emma swirls her tongue around Mary Margaret’s clit and Mary Margaret bucks underneath her in response, lets out a long, low moan that Emma swears she can feel invading every inch of her. She continues to trace a pattern with her tongue, speeding up as Mary Margaret’s response grows more out of control and insistent.

Mary Margaret comes with a gasp and Emma slows her speed but does not stop her tongue, drawing the most she can out of Mary Margaret’s orgasm until the other woman stills completely beneath her.

Mary Margaret’s breathing is ragged and Emma lifts her head to find that Mary Margaret’s eyes are closed, her cheeks flushed and mouth parted. Still, somehow, she looks graceful, composed. Emma’s breath catches in her throat. She climbs back up Mary Margaret’s body, brushes the corner of Mary Margaret’s mouth with her thumb, and kisses her softly.

Mary Margaret responds with hands light on Emma’s shoulders, rolling them both over so Mary Margaret ends up straddling Emma’s hips.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret whispers as she reaches out to smooth Emma’s hair off her forehead. The last thing Emma thinks -- before Mary Margaret’s fingers are inside her and she is unable to process anything but touch and teeth and tongue and _more_ and _yes_ and _slower_ then _faster_ \-- is she’s never heard her name sound so much like a promise before.

Hours later, Emma wakes to Mary Margaret’s even breathing in her ear and Mary Margaret’s arm slung across Emma’s stomach. Emma wonders if she should leave, retreat to her own bed or possibly to her car and all the way back to Boston where she won’t have to deal with the aftermath of what happened last night. She has plenty of experience escaping the morning after a one night stand but she’s never actually slept with her roommate before.

There's a flurry of panic in her brain, wondering if things have changed. What felt right last night feels very much like messing up the only stable and supportive relationship she has in her life now without the sudden rush that came along with Mary Margaret’s lips against hers.

But Mary Margaret’s arm is firm against Emma’s stomach and there’s something in the way the other woman is curled against her that speaks of her complete trust in Emma.

Mary Margaret is all softness to Emma’s hard edges. Emma’s often hated and resented that vulnerability in others. It’s not something she’s ever had the luxury of herself. But when she senses it in Mary Margaret she wants to protect her, fight the world that would threaten that almost childlike innocence of hers.

Whatever she may feel in the morning, Mary Margaret will be hurt if Emma leaves. Emma closes her eyes, wills her racing thoughts to slow. She might as well get some sleep.

She’s staying.

Emma awakes again hours later to find Mary Margaret sitting up, sheet pulled tightly around her chest, staring down at Emma with alarm that echoes Emma's own from last night.

"Don't panic," Emma commands levelly.

"I'm not panicking," Mary Margaret protests.

"You are. That is definitely panic face."

"Why would I panic?" Mary Margaret demands, clutching the sheet more tightly around her as she speaks as if to fend off Emma’s observations.

"Because. We're friends. We're maybe best friends and you're wondering if we screwed that up by having sex."

"The thought may have crossed my mind," Mary Margaret admits.

"Sweetie, it is very obvious looking at your face that the thought was pounding at your skull," Emma observes dryly, her desire to assuage Mary Margaret’s fears reinforcing her own calm.

Mary Margaret sighs. "Fine. You're right. So, did we?"

"Screw it all up? I don’t know.”

“How are you so calm, then?” Mary Margaret narrows her eyes, stares Emma down the way Emma’s pretty sure she stares down students she knows are up to something. Emma’s thighs twitch in response.

“I freaked out before you woke up,” Emma admits.

Mary Margaret tries to keep her stern look but her shoulders shake with laughter and the corners of her mouth turn up though she bites her lip in an attempt to keep the laughter from escaping. She’s gorgeous and Emma decides not to fight the urge to lunge across the bed and tackle her.

Mary Margaret succumbs to full-on giggles as Emma pins her to the bed. If they’re going to monumentally screw up their friendship, they might as well enjoy it.

**ii. in a wonderland**  
When Emma opens the door to their apartment -- she doesn’t remember when she started thinking of it as theirs instead of just Mary Margaret’s -- the first thing she notices is Mary Margaret humming. It’s a light, bouncy tune that Emma doesn’t quite recognize but sounds suspiciously like something out of a Disney movie. The next thing she notices is large quantities of baking supplies spread out across the kitchen island.

“What are you doing?” she inquires as she tosses her bag on the floor and makes her way over to perch on one of the kitchen stools.

“Making cookies,” Mary Margaret replies cheerfully. “Bake sale at school tomorrow.” Mary Margaret resumes her humming as she fills a measuring cup with sugar and then dumps the sugar into a large bowl. Suddenly her eyes snap up to Emma, wide and excited. “Do you want to help?”

“Oh, I don’t...” Emma slides of the stool and inches backwards. “I just remembered I have to do a thing so I’m gonna...”

“Oh, come on. It will be fun.” Mary Margaret bounces as she says it and her voice is all hope, almost pleading. Emma finds it tugs at something within her, makes it nearly impossible for her to say no.

“I don’t really know how to make cookies,” Emma offers as her final defense, still backing towards the door and contemplating escape despite this confusing desire she has to stay.

Mary Margaret claps her hands in response like this is the best thing Emma possibly could have said. “I’ll teach you,” she exclaims. She waves her hands, motioning Emma toward the her and the kitchen.

“Fine,” Emma grumbles as she walks back toward Mary Margaret. She wonders if Mary Margaret knows the attitude is all for show, that something about her invite and her insistence is making Emma feel warm in a way that’s probably only half about how adorable Mary Margaret looks in her little frilly apron.

“Okay,” Mary Margaret says with an enthusiasm more suited for someone embarking upon a great adventure as opposed to someone teaching their adult roommate to bake a batch of cookies. “Let’s see. I’ve got all the dry ingredients in here already.” She gestures to the large blue bowl she just dumped the sugar into. “Can you grab the butter and eggs from the fridge and I’ll find the vanilla and the chocolate chips in the cabinet?”

Emma does as she’s told and tries not to blush at the way Mary Margaret beams at her a little like a proud mother when Emma looks at the recipe laid out on the counter and breaks the correct amount of eggs into the bowl.

When the ingredients are mixed and the chocolate chips added, Emma waits until Mary Margaret turns her back to check the preheating oven then dips her finger into the bowl for a taste. She’s not quick enough to escape detection. Mary Margaret swats her hand away from the bowl.

“Emma, you’re not supposed to eat that,” she admonishes. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

“Oh, come on,” Emma replies as she picks up a spoon that’s lying on the counter and dips it in to scoop up a large helping of cookie dough. “Live a little. Unbutton that top button. Eat the dough.” She holds the spoon up just centimeters from Mary Margaret’s mouth and Mary Margaret looks at her like a straight A student who is seriously tempted to break the rules but doesn’t quite know how.

“Go ahead. I won’t tell.” Emma moves in closer as she says it, rests one hand on Mary Margaret’s waist. Mary Margaret leans into the touch and at the same time opens her mouth to allow Emma to feed her the spoonful of cookie dough.

There’s a look of pure bliss on her face as she chews then swallows the dough. “Oh my God, that’s delicious,” she whispers.

“See? I knew you could live on the edge.”

There’s a gentle mocking in Emma’s tone. Mary Margaret looks offended for a split second and Emma wonders if she’s said something wrong. Then Mary Margaret undoes the top button of her sweater and looks at Emma proudly. “You know it.”

“Oh, that’s hot.” Emma leans down and places a kiss on Mary Margaret’s collar bone. At the same time she pushes Mary Margaret backwards until she’s pinned against the kitchen counter.

“I thought we weren’t going to do this again,” Mary Margaret offers lightly, her words lacking any real conviction.

They’ve said that every time, that they won’t end up in each other’s beds each night or, like last night, with Emma pushing Mary Margaret against the door of the apartment the minute they walked in from dinner at Granny’s. Or rather, Emma has said it every time. She suspects Mary Margaret only agrees because she understands something about the denial makes Emma feel better, more in control of this thing that in truth is beyond them both.

“But what if we are?” Emma teases, her hands reaching around to cup Mary Margaret’s ass. In the moment her objections always blur. It’s only after that she hesitates, questions how long this can last until she hurts one or both of them.

“No, no. Come on, Emma. We have to stay on task.”

“That’s not really deterring me.”

“What?” Mary Margaret asks. As is often the case, she seems genuinely oblivious to the effect she is having on Emma.

“You’re doing this stern teacher thing, reprimanding me for not taking the bake-sale seriously. It’s kinda working for me.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Emma reaches for the bowl of dough again and, as expected, Mary Margaret once again slaps her hand away.

“That’s enough now. If we keep eating the dough we won’t have enough cookies.” Mary Margaret admonishes.

Emma bites down on her lower lip and stares at Mary Margaret through lowered lashes.

“You did that on purpose.” Mary Margaret sounds surprised but, if Emma’s not mistaken, also a little intrigued. It’s all the encouragement Emma needs.

“I did,” Emma confirms, lightly rubbing the hand Mary Margaret just smacked. “Care to hand out my punishment, Ms. Blanchard?”

Mary Margaret pauses, eyes Emma, eyes the oven and the cookie dough still sitting on the counter.

“Upstairs,” Mary Margaret orders, pointing. “I’ll meet you up there when I get this batch of cookies out of the oven and put the rest of this dough in the fridge.”

“It’s both frustrating and hot that you feel the need to clean up the kitchen first.”

“Emma! To your room.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Several minutes later Mary Margaret shows up, pauses in Emma’s doorway. Keeping eye contact, achingly aware of the desire pounding through her at the thought of what she hopes is to come, Emma slips her shirt over her head then slips off her jeans, bra, and underwear.

Mary Margaret takes a few steps in her direction, asks, “What do you want?”

Emma knows exactly. It’s been running through her mind non-stop since Mary Margaret sent her up the stairs. She’s almost scared to ask for it, afraid as she shows more and more of herself to Mary Margaret that someday it will be too much.

But Emma’s wet with just the thought of it. The whole of her is tightly coiled with desire. Emma has no choice but to ask.

She climbs on the bed on all fours. Turns her head to look over her shoulder to look at Mary Margaret.

“I want you to punish me for my misbehavior,” she says simply, not allowing the uncertainty she feels to slip into her voice.

Hesitation flits across Mary Margaret’s face and Emma’s heart drops but it’s only momentary. The space of a heartbeat, and then Mary Margaret takes a few steps to close the distance between them.

“You’ve been a very bad girl, Miss Swan,” Mary Margaret reprimands in that same professorial tone that Emma admitted minutes ago drove her crazy.

The first time Mary Margaret slaps Emma’s ass, the touch is light. Still, Emma swears she can feel it reverberating through her whole body.

She wriggles backwards on the bed, getting herself closer to Mary Margaret, asking for more. The next slap is harder. A stinging sensation, the sound of flesh on flesh. Emma cannot help the low moan that escapes her.

“More,” Emma demands. And Mary Margaret complies with another smack. Then Emma feels Mary Margaret's hand caressing her ass gently, where her hand has no doubt left a red mark.

“Is this really okay?” Mary Margaret whispers softly.

The gentleness in Mary Margaret’s voice, the concern, tugs at something in Emma that she’s long buried. Emma’s response is a little too much like desperation; she pushes it down. She’s allowed herself to want Mary Margaret but she’s not prepared to need her.

Emma doesn’t answer the question with words, afraid something in her voice might give her away. Instead she rises and turns to face Mary Margaret, pulls her onto the bed and, taking one of Mary Margaret’s hands in hers, she places it between her thighs to show the other woman how much she’s made Emma want her.

Mary Margaret leans forward for a kiss, her mouth hungry and eager against Emma’s own. She puts two fingers inside Emma and then draws them out, running them lightly over Emma’s clit before disentangling herself from Emma completely and lying down on the bed. Emma aches with the loss of contact.

Mary Margaret's eyelids are heavy, almost closed, as she regards Emma kneeling on the bed next to her. She reaches out a hand and grasps Emma’s arm, tugging at her to indicate where she wants her.

Emma pauses for a moment, not out of hesitation, but a need to draw the moment out, make it last.

Mary Margaret breaks through Emma’s thoughts with a simple question. “Disobeying the teacher again, Miss Swan?”

Mary Margaret is playing the role now without prompting and Emma feels almost giddy with it.

“No, Miss Blanchard,” she responds. “I intend to take my assignments very seriously from now on.”

To prove her point, Emma crawls up Mary Margaret’s body slowly, taking time to trail her tongue along skin already lightly salty with sweat. She positions herself with one knee on each side of Mary Margaret’s head and grips the headboard with her hands.

When Mary Margaret’s tongue finds Emma’s clit, Emma realizes just how very close to the edge she already is. She grasps the headboard more tightly, fights the urge to move in rhythm with Mary Margaret’s tongue just yet. She wants Mary Margaret in control.

Mary Margaret follows a few flicks of her tongue against Emma’s clit by lightly sucking on it and then resumes a rhythm of progressively quicker flicks and finally Emma can not help but move her hips in rhythm with Mary Margaret.

Mary Margaret’s hands reach up and grasp Emma’s thighs tightly, holding Emma still as Mary Margaret’s tongue continues to work. Something about the power of those hands, usually so gentle but gripping her tightly enough now that Emma hopes they’ll leave a bruise, an undeniable mark of this moment, sends Emma past the edge.

Everything within her expands and contracts at rapid-fire pace as Mary Margaret’s name comes tumbling off her lips.

**iii. just keep on learning**  
Emma is lying on her stomach as Mary Margaret lazily runs fingers along Emma’s back, tracing invisible patterns along her skin.

“Do you think we should tell people that we’re...?” Mary Margaret trails off, lets the silence hang.

“Having sex?” Emma asks, trying to tamp down the edge of panic in her voice.

Mary Margaret laughs in a way that indicates she’s almost as nervous as Emma is. Emma wishes that meant she would drop the subject.

“No, I mean I certainly wouldn’t phrase it that way to anyone else but that we’re... what are we Emma?”

Emma’s muscles twitch with the urge to spring out of bed, away from this question. She takes a deep breath.

“We’re friends,” she says. “You’re... my best friend.”

Mary Margaret sighs and Emma hates herself for not being capable of more.

“But aren’t we more than that? You feel like more than that to me.”

“We’re friends who have sex?” Emma offers hopefully, regrets the words immediately when she sees the hurt that flits across Mary Margaret’s face. “Look, I’m sorry. I... you’re right. It feels like more. I just... I’m not good at this. And I really don’t want to screw it up.”

Mary Margaret smiles, then, and Emma tries to ignore the pain that’s still obvious in Mary Margaret's eyes.

“It’s okay,” Mary Margaret says, her hands now rubbing soothing circles on Emma’s back. “We have time. It will work out. You’re not going to screw it up.”

Emma tries to let the words roll off her but, despite her best efforts, she thinks she just might believe them.

**iv. in a world where down is up**  
Emma’s thoughts are a jumble at first. Then everything is eclipsed by the fact that Henry is here and alive, his arms around her. There’s a rush of warmth and wrongs set right.

But then there’s a purple cloud. People in the hospital are excitedly chattering about recovered memories. Henry looks at the cloud, then up at Emma in awe. He was right all along. There’s no denying it now. It’s written on his face -- he’s proud of her.

For a moment that’s enough. But a moment is all she gets. Emma’s thoughts still and stutter, frozen on Mary Margaret. Snow White. Her mother. If everything else Henry has said is true, that is too.

Emma hopes Henry will write it off to the shock of the curse being broken when Emma lets go of him, stumbling backwards and finding purchase against the glass wall behind her lest her legs give out beneath her and send her crashing to the floor.

She never really believed it. She couldn’t have until the past few days and up until now she’s been too busy fighting for Henry to process it all. She battled a dragon for God’s sake. But now it’s over. For so many around her the world is set right but she...

She has to run. Her thoughts race, her heart pounds loudly enough in her ears that everything outside of her turns into white noise. She smiles weakly as people walk by and pat her on the shoulder, nods at words she doesn’t process while she tries to remember where she left her car. It’s parked outside their apartment. The word “their” is a fist in her stomach so she falls back on her job training: focus on the logistics. Three blocks. Can she get there and out of town without anyone seeing her? Trying to stop her?

She stumbles toward the door and then out the exit of the hospital onto the streets that are teeming with people reuniting, happy tears and exclamations. Emma fights a wave of nausea.

“Emma!” It’s David’s voice and it just barely breaks through the fog that crowds her head. Then there’s a physical impact as he slams into her, wrapping his arms tightly around her. Emma stays still, arms straight at her side but David only pulls her tighter. “You did it,” he whispers, his mouth just inches from her ear. “You broke the curse. You found us.”

_Us._ The other half of that us stands behind David, several steps back, her eyes trained on Emma. Something like the torrent of emotions Emma is feeling right now is running across Mary Margaret’s face too. Only Mary Margaret will recognize Emma’s tears for what they are.

David pulls away, slightly, his arms still on Emma’s shoulders. He looks at her like Emma always imagined her father would, pride and love written clear in his gaze. It should fill some void in her, should set her world right but it only makes her feel dirty, unworthy.

David turns his head to Mary Margaret. “Come on, Snow. What are you waiting for? Come hug our daughter.”

Mary Margaret looks like she has to force her feet to move, each step toward them is heavy and slow but she wraps one arm around David and the other around Emma and Emma prays David doesn’t notice the tension in Mary Margaret’s body, the way it mirrors Emma’s own.

Emma needs to run. But she’s stuck.

**v. and up is a long way from here**  
They’re finally alone and Emma should be grateful for the chance to talk but she only feels sick with the certainty that Mary Margaret... Snow... her mother... will never be able to love her now. It’s what she wants, she’s realized now when it’s all too late, when it’s as perversely fucked up as possible.

Not just wants, needs. She needs her mother to love her. And it’s never going to happen.

They’re in the library. Mary Margaret had pulled Emma away in the midst of everyone else’s celebration and, as Mary Margaret must have suspected they would when she steered them here, the two of them found the library empty.

Mary Margaret is leaning against a shelf of books looking at Emma with tears in her eyes. Neither one of them has said a word.

“Talk to me,” Emma pleads. When Mary Margaret remains silent, Emma takes a few steps forward, propelled against her better judgment. There’s always been something stronger than gravity between them.

Emma raises a hand and wipes at the tears that slide down Mary Margaret’s cheek. Mary Margaret sobs more loudly, sinks down toward the ground, curling in on herself. Emma descends with her until Mary Margaret is sitting on the floor and Emma is on her knees in front of her.

“I can’t,” Mary Margaret finally breathes out between choked sobs. “I don’t know how to... oh, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Emma repeats again and again. It isn’t. It’s nowhere close but she’s spinning out, reaching for anything solid. Maybe there’s some magic to the words. Maybe if she says them enough they’ll be true. Maybe they won’t break. Maybe she won’t break. But the truth is she can feel the cracks spreading already.

She is certain they are beyond repair.

There’s something running through her brain about true love’s kiss and some hazy notion that maybe, just maybe this is all some nightmare she can wake them up from. And then her lips are on Mary Margaret’s, desperate and seeking, and Mary Margaret is kissing her back with the same urgency, her hands grasping at Emma’s neck as if to pull her closer, pull the both of them into some world all their own.

But there is no other world now, just this one. Emma is reminded of that when Mary Margaret’s hands move from Emma’s neck to her shoulders, pushing her away almost violently.

Mary Margaret jumps up and the door to the library is slamming shut behind her before Emma can even think, even move.

**vi. a better world, but it’s not like it matters**  
The rain is coming down hard by the time Emma finds Mary Margaret at the city limit, her feet just inches from the line that would make Emma, everything else in Mary Margaret’s life, less than a memory.

Mary Margaret is bracing herself against the downpour, or maybe against the rising anger she senses in Emma. She’s hunched over, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Emma doesn’t feel the rain, certainly does not feel sympathy for the woman standing in front of her, the woman who abandoned her twenty eight years ago and is well on her way to doing it again. All Emma feels is anger, a steady heat rising within her.

“What the hell are doing?” she demands. It’s all very obvious from the suitcase at Mary Margaret’s feet and the way her mother is refusing to look her in the eye but Emma needs to hear her say it.

Mary Margaret simply shuffles her feet and remains silent, still never looking up at Emma. A burst of angry energy propels Emma forward and her hands stretch outward to slam into Mary Margaret’s shoulders. The move is not enough to knock Mary Margaret over but it does propel her backwards, force her to scramble for solid footing, and shock her into looking up, eyes locking with Emma’s finally.

“I said,” Emma repeats, voice all hardened steel like the one she was used to using on the most obnoxious of bail jumpers in the life before this one. “What the hell are you doing?”

Snow reaches out one hand, opens her balled fist to show Emma a crumpled piece of paper. Emma takes it, does her best to ignore the familiar warmth that rushes through her even now as her fingers brush against Mary Margaret’s palm.

The note is crumpled and the ink running as the rain continues to pelt down on them but Emma can still read the words in Mary Margaret’s neat handwriting. _Don’t panic_ , it says. _Don’t go back to Storybrooke._

And Emma knew it. She’s known it since she got in her car and started driving in this direction, almost on autopilot. She certainly knew it when she saw Mary Margaret here staring over the line looking so small and lost that Emma could hardly believe she was anyone’s mother, much less hers. But seeing the evidence right here in her hand still feels like a punch to the gut, knocks the wind out of her.

And even though Emma herself was contemplating an escape not long ago, she hates Mary Margaret in this moment, for standing here with this stupid note in her hands, for always being so ready to leave Emma behind.

“No,” Emma says flatly.

“What?”

“No. You don’t get to leave me again!” Emma punctuates the statement with another shove against Mary Margaret’s shoulders.

“I’m not doing this to hurt you. This is the best thing I can do for you,” Mary Margaret pleads. She’s asking for understanding but Emma has none.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare act like this is what’s best for me. Maybe when I was a baby you could get away with that, you could just leave me, and convince yourself it was for the best. But I’m an adult now and I can call you on your bullshit. It wasn’t for the best then and it sure as hell isn’t now.”

“Emma, what happened... it was so wrong and it’s my fault. All of it. I’m your mother. I should have known. I should have...” Mary Margaret reaches out, her fingers trail the line of Emma’s face with a gentleness that almost undoes Emma. “I should have known you.”

“Stop it. Will you just stop it. Stop talking about the past and just look at what you’re doing now.”

“I am. I’ve thought about this, Emma, and whatever you may think of me, I don’t do this lightly. You can’t see it now but it will get better in time and you’ll realize you’re better off without me. This all went so wrong and I’m sorry but I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to be your mother. This is the best I can do.”

“No, damnit. You don’t get to just walk away because it’s fucked up. You know what happens if I cross that line? Nothing.” Emma steps to the other side of the line and then back again to demonstrate. “I still remember it. All of it. And I need you to too.” She’s screaming now, her breath coming in rough gasps and she feels like she can’t get enough air. The weight of the last few days is pressing on her chest and it’s unbearable, all the more so when she thinks of spending the rest of her life without the woman in front of her. “I don’t know why you had me if you were only ever going to leave me.”

And against her will she’s sobbing, loud and uncontrollable sobs that she can’t quiet no matter how hard she tries. Mary Margaret takes a step toward her, arms outstretched as if to hold her and Emma takes a step back. But Mary Margaret is quick and she has Emma in her arms, pulling her tight before Emma can retreat further.

“Let me go.” Emma’s body stiffens and her hands grab Mary Margaret’s waist and try to break Mary Margaret’s hold, push her away. When that fails Emma takes several steps backwards but Mary Margaret moves with her, still clinging to Emma tightly.

“Oh, God, you’re right. I’m so sorry. I’m not letting you go,” Mary Margaret whispers against Emma’s ear. “I’m not, not ever. You are right and I’m so so sorry.”

Emma tells herself it’s too late, to not let herself fall gratefully into a promise she doesn’t quite believe. She tries one last push her hands pressing uselessly against Mary Margaret who responds only by tightening her arms around her. Emma feels trapped and her urge to flee at any cost fights with an overwhelming wave of relief. The relief wins out and she allows herself to collapse against Mary Margaret. Tears fall from her eyes once again, not the angry sobs of a few minutes ago but a silent surrender.

“You are my baby girl,” her mother says softly. “And I’m never letting you go again.”

**vii. what is it about morning light**  
The loft is empty when they arrive. There’s a weight to the silence but it doesn’t push at them quite as hard as it did hours ago.

Still, Emma is exhausted and Mary Margaret’s posture indicates she feels the same. They stand for a moment, both cold and wet and shivering. Emma feels rooted in place, the overwhelming reality of the decision they made to stick this out and find a way to be a family taking hold and making her uncertain of even the simplest of moves. She remains stock still until Mary Margaret issues an order.

“Get upstairs and change into some dry clothes. I don’t want you getting sick.” Her tone is firm, no room for argument. Emma forces a similar moment out of her mind, Mary Margaret ordering her up to her room under far different circumstances back when Emma thought that was the most complicated their relationship could be.

“Only if you promise to do the same,” Emma responds, shocked by how hoarse her own voice sounds. “You were out there longer than I was. I think your lips are turning blue.”

Mary Margaret offers her a smile, small but genuine, and Emma feels just a little bit warmer.

“Deal,” Mary Margaret agrees. “And, Emma, when you’re changed, come back downstairs, please.”

Emma takes her time changing into pajama pants and and a worn old sweatshirt, sits down on her bed and attempts to catch her breath, something she’s felt unable to do for the past several days. Her mind never strays from the woman downstairs waiting for her.

She’s just about to walk back downstairs when she spots it. The red book, her story, their story. Well, the beginning of it anyway. Henry must have left it here on his most recent visit.

Something compels Emma to tuck the book under one arm before she makes her way back downstairs. She finds Mary Margaret sprawled on her bed and wrapped up in her large fluffy bathrobe, a steaming mug in her hand.

When Emma reaches the bottom of the stairs, Mary Margaret pats the spot next to her on the bed indicating Emma should join her.

“I made hot cocoa,” Mary Margaret offers, first raising up the mug in her hand and then gesturing to another mug that sits on the nightstand, clearly waiting for Emma.

Emma walks over, grabs the mug and takes a sip, grateful for the way the warmth travels through her body and eases the chill she hasn’t yet been able to shake. She hands the book to Mary Margaret and then lies down next to her, scooting down the bed until she is able to rest her head on Mary Margaret’s stomach, a familiar position with a spark of something new, something that feels to Emma a lot like hope.

Mary Margaret turns the book over in her hands, her fingers trail the spine slowly, but she makes no move to open it.

“Tell me our story,” Emma pleads, voice just above a whisper. “Give it a happy ending.”

“We’re in new territory now, Emma. This book can’t help us define this. But we are going to figure it out. We’re going to be okay. I promise you that. And most of all I promise I will always, always love you.” With one last glance at the familiar red book in her hands, Mary Margaret sets it aside on the nightstand and then leans down to place a soft kiss on Emma’s temple before settling back on the pillows behind her once again.

“Love you too,” Emma whispers sleepily. She feels warm now, safe for the first time since the curse was broken. Despite the broken pieces that make up the two of them, this right here is home. “Tell me the story,” she urges again.

Mary Margaret takes a deep breath, and Emma delights in the feel of her mother’s stomach rising and falling beneath her. Mary Margaret lets one hand rest lightly on Emma’s head, fingers working gently through blonde hair, and she begins.

“Once upon a time...”


End file.
